


Outside Your Window, Looking In

by Underlined in Red (Underlined)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Choking, Exhibitionism, F/M, Horror, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Not Epilogue Compliant, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rare Pairings, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26816806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Underlined/pseuds/Underlined%20in%20Red
Summary: Some days, Hermione Granger just wants to let her hair down.Occasionally, Hermione Granger takes calculated risks to reach there.Rarely, Hermione Granger miscalculates.Never in his life has Antonin Dolohov been this lucky.
Relationships: Antonin Dolohov/Hermione Granger
Comments: 32
Kudos: 232
Collections: Good Girl Hermione





	Outside Your Window, Looking In

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed all warnings and tags.  
> For reasons that will be implied, Dolohov calls Hermione "little girl".  
> If you choose to continue, proceed with caution.
> 
> Also, this fic is not meant to advocate any of the acts mentioned. Make your own judgment responsibly. 
> 
> I’ve taken some liberties with Dolohov’s age in this fic, and am leveraging the theory that it's his father who first served Tom Riddle/Voldemort. He is in his late forties (give or take) in this fic. 
> 
> Still here? 
> 
> Well, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
> 
> _(I swear, I was working on fluff! This evil plot bunny was very insistent!)_

Hermione sighs as she steps into her rental flat and pushes the door shut with a click. Mechanically, she erects the necessary wards with practised ease. She presses the heel of her palm against her temple, staving off the incoming migraine. 

The latest centaur campaign she’s been trying to advocate is going nowhere. Her Head of Department is not helpful in the least, and the centaurs are getting jumpy from being in the spotlight. It feels like she's the only one who is genuinely trying to push for equal rights! Everyone else seems perfectly happy with forfeiting months of lobbying and reverting back to the status quo! 

On a whim, she's decided to take a leaf from her HOD's book, leaving the Ministry premises at exactly 6pm that day. She desperately needs to relax. She's looking forward to a nice soak in the bath with a good book. 

Goose pimples prickle into her skin, startling her from the plan she is making in her head. Her neighbour across the street is looking through her window again. 

Tony is a stereotypical example of an introvert, if she ever saw one. He rarely leaves his flat other than for work and errands, doesn’t talk to anyone on the streets. Shame, really, for he’s far from ugly. 

He does gaze out of his window an awful lot though, and she wonders sometimes if he’s lonely but afraid of the world. They are in a relatively quiet area on the fringe of Muggle London, and there are some unsavoury characters lurking in the alleys, so she understands his apprehension. Not everyone has the privilege of protection spells. 

Quickly assessing the risk-reward ratio of this new idea creeping into her mind, she abandons her plans for the day and decides to embark on a more thrilling one. It could be their little secret. After all, the loner across the street is unlikely to blabber about what he is going to see. If things get too hairy, she can always draw the blinds. 

Anticipation jolts through her. With her disastrous breakup with Ron six months into the relationship, she has thrown herself into her job and avoided daring like the plague. This is going to be the most action she's getting in a long while.

She digs her hands under the waistband of her light-grey pencil skirt and untucks her smartly-pressed blouse. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she unbuttons the shirt, making her way slowly past her living room window, out of sight. Her shirt is deposited in the hamper in the bathroom. Her skirt follows shortly after, and she is clad in only her bra and knickers. 

Her reflection scrutinises her with a frown, as she runs her hands over her practical, nude underwear. Not enticing enough, she thinks. With a flick of her wand, they morph into black lace. Eyes narrowed, she flicks her wand again, transfiguring her bra into a strapless one for easier access. She releases her long hair from the neat bun, fluffing it out to cascade over her back in loose curls.

Hurriedly, she moves into her room and starts rummaging through a drawer, searching, searching. She fishes out a threadbare oversized white t-shirt that barely covers her bum and throws it on, the black lace a stark contrast against the thin white cotton. 

Her strides purposeful, she struts to the living room, hoping against hope that she still has her audience. She flips the light switch as she enters, just in case she enjoys herself well past sunset. 

The hairs on her neck start standing on end and she cheers in her mind. 

She stops at her wall-length bookshelf, just barely visible from the window. 

She starts at eye-level, scanning the titles. Then moves to the shelf below that, and then the one below that, until she is bending at the waist, her bum barely covered by the length of the t-shirt. The twinge of excitement builds as she reaches for a random book from the shelf, feeling the fabric ride up and up until she straightens herself, book in hand. 

She plonks herself onto the wine-coloured sofa that faces the window, now in full view of the intruding eyes, thighs crossed in anticipation. 

She flips to a random page, and finds herself staring at the uses of Gillyweed. The edges of her mouth quirk up in amusement as she recognises it as a Potions textbook from school. Unseeingly, she scans the three pages filled with words she's memorised many moons ago. 

As the thrill accumulates, her breathing gets heavier and her bra starts to feel a little too tight against her skin. 

She balances the textbook on her lap to free her hands. 

Her hands drift up her ribs, pushing the cotton t-shirt over her stomach, revealing black lace knickers that her voyeur can't see. Both hands sneak around to her back and unclasps her matching bra, removing it from under her shirt and flinging it over the back of the couch. Already excited, her nipples stand erect under the thin fabric. 

She hopes he has a pair of binoculars. 

The shirt drapes neatly over her body as she picks the book back up, teasingly blocking his view of her chest. 

Her patience thins as she forces herself to complete another chapter. 

Task complete, a hand wanders upwards to cup a perky breast through the t-shirt, fingers tweaking her nipple into attention. 

Lamenting the lack of stimulation, the book returns on her lap, and both hands dive under her shirt to fondle herself more directly, exposing her midriff and lap again. 

Her thighs uncross and cross, giving her voyeur a peek of her lace knickers. 

She gasps at a particularly hard twist of her nipples, and the pleasure shoots down to her center. Book forgotten, she tugs the shirt over her head and the cold air runs over her bare breasts as her head rests on the back of the sofa, mouth open with unspoken pleas. 

She tosses the heavy textbook onto the nearby coffee table with a thud. Her body shifts and she is lying on the sofa lengthwise, her hands never stopping their pinching, pulling, tugging. The velvet covering rubs luxuriously against her back as the evening sun streams through the window on her left and serendipitously illuminates her torso. 

Soon, her left hand makes its way down her ribs, past her stomach and lingers at the waistband of her knickers. Then it shoots down to the apex of her thighs and cups her mound above the fabric. She presses a finger insistently against her core through the lace and smiles as her warmth seeps easily through. 

She slips her hand under the waistband of her knickers and fingers seek out her bundle of nerves. 

She is not wet enough, she thinks. 

Her hand delves deeper, onto her wet slit, and two fingers run haphazardly over the moisture there, spreading them over her labia, before running a wet trail up to her clitoris. 

Better. 

She rubs around her clit in lazy circles as she stares unseeingly at the blank wall. She could turn her head _just a little bit_ to see him. But she resists; it would spoil her act. 

She imagines he is sporting an erection now, and her breathing quickens. 

Hurriedly, she dips a finger, then two into her entrance, breathing heavily at the stretch. She pictures the man looming over her, his fist enclosed around his member, his lustful eyes on her wanton form. He is breathing heavily as he strokes his member into erection. 

She pumps herself shallowly, imagining it is now his slender fingers in her. Her heart pounds at the thought and the tension winds tighter.

She groans as she quickly drags her soaked knickers down her thighs, discarding them in the same general direction as her shirt and bra. 

Completely naked now, she dips her wet digits back into her channel and sets a punishing rhythm, fueled by the obscene squelches that echoes through her living room and the tingling underneath her skin. Her face heats and she mewls, imagining the fingers are not her own, are no longer fingers. She brings her other hand to surround her clit, running up and down parallel to her pearl, but not applying direct pressure to it. Not yet. 

Her hips arch off the sofa slowly as the pleasure builds. She is so... _so_ close. 

Suddenly, her movements halt and she falls back onto the sofa as the doorbell startles her. 

As arousal trickles down her arse, she considers if she should just ignore it. 

"Delivery! I need you to sign this, Miss," an unfamiliar voice hollers through the door. 

She groans. 

"One moment," she calls. 

She scourgifies her hands, tugs on her t-shirt and summons a pair of worn shorts from the hamper, foregoing her underwear in hopes that she could continue where she left off. 

Her wand lifts to transfigure the t-shirt to something that's less inappropriate, but her nipples rub so deliciously against the thin white fabric that she decides she may as well give the courier an eyeful before sending him on his way. 

She flings the door open in annoyance, only belatedly realising that the courier couldn't possibly know that _she_ was at home. 

Dark hair, five o' clock shadow and piercing black eyes greet her, and her mind registers who he is with startling clarity; Antonin Dolohov. 

She staggers backwards, hand cradling her ribs in a reflex response. Her fingers twitch as her subconscious recalls the searing pain that sliced through her lungs all those years ago in the Department of Mysteries. 

She remembers to scream, but no sound issues from her throat. When has he silenced her? 

"Tut tut, you shouldn't invite just anyone into your home, Miss Hermione Granger," Dolohov chides as her wand flies out of her grip. 

Wandless magic?

Carelessly, the 10 and three-quarter inch vinewood is tossed into the deserted corridor where it lands with a faint clatter. Strong arms shove her further backwards and she almost stumbles as he locks the door hurriedly behind him. 

Dread creeps in as Dolohov mutters the incantations to his own wards in quick succession, and places them over hers. She catches glimpses of anti-detection, silencing, and Muggle-repelling, but the last two were unfamiliar. Her curious brain instinctively wonders if they were his own creation even as her conscious mind churns with panic. 

With a distinct snap of his fingers, the blinds on her windows drop with a cacophony of clangs onto their respective window sills, blocking her flat from prying eyes, bathing them in the weak yellow light from the living room. 

There goes her only witness, she thinks with dismay. She's torn on whether she hopes her voyeur has called the Muggle police or not. Dolohov's obviously more skilled than the average Muggle police officer. They wouldn't stand a chance. Neither would she. 

"Miss Granger." His voice draws her out from her thoughts. He advances on her like a predator, leering at her, "Your body, your screams, your scent, your climaxes. They are for my enjoyment only." He grins evilly, advancing on her, broadcasting his intentions loud and clear. 

Unwilling to turn her back on him, she is forced to shuffle backwards, hands behind her in an attempt to feel her way around. 

He's unreasonably cocky, isn't he? 

Hands collide with an unyielding wall and she realises she can only move sideways. As if sensing her intentions, his hand wraps around her neck, gripping it like a vice, squeezing into her windpipe threateningly. The force slams her into the wall, knocking the air out of her. 

"Does my presence bother you? You were enjoying yourself just now," he taunts as he grazes a palm over her breast, and she hates that her nipple hardens at his fleeting touch.

Was he looking through her window too? 

His grip on her throat tightens, and she feels progressively lightheaded as she desperately claws at his arm. 

"Do you perhaps prefer me like this?" 

His grip slackens and she blinks at him through unshed tears. Standing before her is the sandy-haired man with the unimposing presence. The man she had smiled at just a week ago at the grocer's. The same man who was supposed to be a Muggle salaryman working at a tech firm. 

She shakes in fury and mouths at him. You tricked me!

"No, my dear. _You_ are the one who assumed poor _Tony_ couldn't be a threat to you, based on the records you managed to dig up. I, on the other hand, have not spoken a single word to you as Tony." He drops the glamour and grins maniacally at her, "Besides, Tony or Antonin, it's always been me, deep inside." 

She glares, contempt in her eyes. 

"And I can't wait to be _deep. inside. you_ ," he leans into her space and purrs into her ear, fingers flexing against her throat in warning. His growing bulge pulses against her thigh and her mind swirls. 

An impulsive slap rings through the flat, shocking her more than it does him. 

"Never would have guessed you liked it rough. Not with the way you panted like a bitch as you slammed those fingers hard and fast into your dripping cunt." Sarcasm drips thickly from his words as he grins at her with cold fury. He winds her thick tresses around his hand and yanks, hard, laughing as the top of her head collides against the wall. 

Forced to stare at the ceiling, she feels his scratchy stubble along the side of her neck as he attacks her exposed throat with his wet tongue. 

She shudders in disgust as the trail of saliva leading from her clavicle cools against the air. He latches his greedy mouth onto her right breast, his saliva soaks warmly through the thin cotton as his tongue rolls her nipple into a hard peak. 

Without warning, his teeth clamp over her, and she shrieks in silence. 

"Silly me, I forgot. I do love it when women scream," he says as he lifts the silencing spell on her with a snap of his fingers. 

He squeezes her other breast cruelly, twisting her nipples between his fingers, and she bites her lips, struggling to keep her whimpers to herself. 

The flimsy t-shirt is tugged over her head, baring her pert breasts to his hungry stare. His wet mouth encloses itself around the one he's assaulted, laving on the fading imprints of his teeth with a soft tongue. His calloused fingers return to idly play with the other, rolling it around his adept fingers. She's horrified as her face turns hot and the coil in her belly tightens. 

An impatient hand snakes down to the waist of her shorts and she squirms away, only to be stopped by the teeth grazing warningly on her breast and his sudden tight grip on her hip. 

With deft fingers, he drags down her zipper and shoves her denim shorts past her hips. 

"No knickers," he comments, "Wanted to continue your little show, did you?" 

A finger enters her roughly, and he feels just how wet she was -- still is. 

"Is all this for me?" 

She grits her teeth, refusing to acknowledge him, nor the shame. 

His soaked finger retreats slowly, and her breath hitches. 

"You're going to like this. I'll make you sing," he whispers as he teases her there, spreading her juices all over, imitating her motions from mere minutes ago. His mouth settles back over her breast, sucking on her nipple. The combined assault shocks her into a whimper as she closes her eyes, ignoring the way he breathes against her, ignoring the way his dark eyes leer at her, and she just... feels. 

She feels the teasing rolls of his tongue. She feels the frantic pressure of his fingers. She feels his insistent erection on her thigh. 

She yelps as his fingers enter her, two this time, slipping in and out without hindrance. 

"You are so wet, my dear."

He squeezes in a third, and she squirms as she tries to keep still, she pants as she tries to not hyperventilate, her mind goes blank as she tries to think. 

Oh Merlin! 

His fingers are _much_ thicker than her own. She hasn't been stretched like this in such a long time. 

"Fuuuck. You're so tight. I'll take good care of you, little girl." His groan vibrates against her saliva-coated breast and she shivers. 

His fingers retreat and push against her trembling muscles, drawing _noises_ from her wet channel as she clings traitorously onto his fingers on their retreat. 

Her breathing hitches as he hits a sensitive spot, and her nails dig into his arm that's still gripping her throat, scrabbling for some sort of sanity. 

A broken moan escapes as he twists his thumb to land on her clit. Her legs begin to lose strength as they quiver in anticipation. Her walls begin to flutter and she thinks that something has short-circuited in her body. Probably her brain. 

And suddenly, he backs away from her. Gone were his fingers, his mouth, his possessive grip around her jugular. She feels suddenly cold. 

The strength in her legs non-existent, she slumps down into a pile on the floor, back against the wall, gasping for breath, lamenting the loss of sensations. Hot tears sting at her eyes as she realises that she wants nothing more than to gush all over his fingers _right now_. To hell with the fact that those are the same pair of hands responsible for the torture and demise of some of her closest friends. 

She blinks through her misery to find him stripping out of his robes. And Merlin, Azkaban agrees with him. He must have acclimatised to it, having spent much of his adult life in there. Off comes his shirt, and she observes just how lean his torso is, sparsely littered with battle scars. Then his trousers, baring his muscular thighs and calves. 

His boxers fall lightly onto his toes, and- Oh god. Her mutinous womanhood _clenches_. 

"Look how hard you make me," he wraps a loose grip around his hard cock and addresses her with heated eyes, "Now, be a good girl and don't bite." Or else. 

His hand tangles into her hair, guiding her face close to his erection. 

She clenches her jaw defiantly, scowling up at him as his length grazes across her cheek, spreading the bead of precum in a sticky streak. 

He yanks hard again and she gasps instinctively at the stinging in her scalp. Taking the opportunity, he pushes himself into her open mouth leisurely, stopping only when the tip reaches the back of her throat. She gags as he holds her head in place, his coarse hairs tickling her nose. 

She can't breathe! 

Her panicked hands land on his thighs in an attempt to push herself away, but he ignores her struggle and doesn't budge. 

Then he pulls her back by the hair (a brief respite) before he slams back into her. 

"Relax your throat, darling. You'll find it's easier that way." 

His thick member slides deeper, past her tonsils and his cock twitches at the pressure. His harsh exhale fills the room.

She feels ill. 

She has never appreciated the idea of giving head, and she suspects she never will. Not after this. 

He retreats, and returns. Both hands are on her scalp now, grasping fistfuls of her hair, as he guides her head; retreat and return. 

Tears squeeze past her closed eyes as his movements quicken. His loud pants and her frequent gasps for air fill the otherwise silent room. 

With a final push that forces the tip of his cock a little ways down her throat, he comes with a grunt. Hot cum coats her sore throat as his viscous ejaculate drags slowly down her esophagus. She swallows reflexively at the sensation, and he jerks even deeper at the sudden constriction. 

Her struggles renew as she slaps uselessly against his thighs. 

"Fuck. You take me so well, little girl."

She cringes as his softening cock slides out from her mouth and the last drops of his bitter semen coats her tongue. 

"Swallow it all." His thumb and fingers digs into her cheeks as his palm presses insistently under her jaw, tilting her head back. "Let's not have your effort go to waste."

He lets go of her only when she swallows the remaining fluid with a gulp. 

"Please leave," She begs as his taste lingers in her mouth. She figures her dignity is already gone, may as well double down on the humiliation, "I won't tell anyone." 

"I’m sorry, little girl." He leans down and licks the freshly-shed tears off her face, not looking the slightest bit apologetic. He wipes off his sticky pre-cum with his thumb. "We haven't even gotten to the fun part yet." 

He tilts her chin up, so that she sees the intensity in his gaze. "You're going to shake as you gush all over my fingers, over and over. Then I'm going to pound you into that pretty couch until you can’t think. You'll be so sore that walking becomes difficult." 

She shakes her head vehemently, horrified as her traitorous cunt clenches at his filthy promises. She bargains, "Don't do this. I'm a M-Mudblood. You shouldn't sully yourself with me." 

Goose pimples flare as he skims her throat and chest. 

He shushes her, "That spiel hardly matters, innocent little girl," he hauls her up to her feet and hooks a hand under her back and knees, scooping her up effortlessly, “It’s always been a means to an end.” 

Realisation hits her like a freight train. Dolohov neither tortured nor killed because of a cause he believed in. He actually _revels_ in those sick acts. 

His eyes shine dangerously at her, and she recognises it as the same crazed look in Bellatrix Lestrange’s eyes, mere moments before she’d sunk the cursed blade into her arm. 

She panics, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her nails sink into his bare chest, scratching angry red welts over his scars. She thrashes in his arms, legs kicking so that he can't get a good grip on her. 

He drops her, and she scrambles to her feet, ignoring the jarring pain in her elbow as she lands on it. She has to escape! 

She makes it about halfway to the door before she freezes, and crashes onto the floor. 

Dolohov hauls her up, folding her neatly over his shoulder with his hands indecently running up and down her thighs. 

The sofa creaks under her weight as she is dropped unceremoniously, the air knocked out of her lungs. He wrenches her thighs apart and settles in the seat between her legs, facing her. 

His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he looms over her with a snarl, “Little girl, I have been nothing but patient. I suggest you don’t take that for granted. Or I will make you scream in other ways." 

She stares up at the cruel expression etched on his face, apprehension clear on hers. 

He tugs her hands up high, over her head, proudly displaying the scarred Dark Mark on his forearm. His hands sweep, feather-light, down her arms, neck, torso, tracing every dip and curve along the way. 

His right hand stops over a breast, mauling it roughly in punishment. His left drifts further down, lingering on her inner thigh before he hooks it underneath her knee, dragging it over the back of the sofa such that her foot dangles and she is spread indecently for him. His touch returns to the very top of her inner thigh. So very close. Her cheeks burn as he hungrily ogles her unwilling arousal. 

He tugs roughly on a nipple and she feels heat shoot low into her belly. 

His palm connects with the side of her tender breast in a slap and her eyes scrunches shut, blocking his leer from her vision as he caresses over the warm handprint. 

A second slap lands on her clit, and her eyes flutter open as she exhales heavily. 

He strokes a thumb over her folds, exploring, teasing, tempting, and her breath hitches as her body overheats. 

She doesn't want to feel. Not with him! 

A finger slips insistently past her entrance as the thumb strums her clit in lazy circles. 

Oh god. 

He chuckles darkly at her shaky exhale. A hand is wrenched off the arm of the sofa and guided to her glistening core. His hand on hers, palm over fingers, they move over and over her clit with unforgiving pressure. Her eyes roll back as a thin trail of liquid trickles down her rosebud, tickling her. 

“That’s it. Feel how wet you are for me,” he whispers, his grin absolutely wicked. 

Her finger is manoeuvred to her slick entrance, and it slips in without preamble. His finger follows close behind, pushing until they are both knuckles-deep in her wet cunt. 

The pad of his finger depresses on her nail bed, and forces her finger against the bumpy flesh lining her front walls. 

She inhales sharply as a jolt of electricity shoots through her synapses. 

She wants so badly to move. 

His hand twists, and his finger crawls deeper into her, stroking, exploring, probing her. All while her finger remains uselessly stationary. He draws almost all the way out and slides back in ever so slowly, the back of his finger brushes hers lightly, almost intimately. Unreasonably, it makes her feel light-headed. 

Like a moth drawn to flame, her eyes follow the movement, observing as the evidence of her arousal glistens on an unfamiliar man’s finger. The thought alone almost makes her come. 

His faded dark mark comes back into view again, and the indisputable danger adds a different element to the seduction. The pressure on her nail bed comes again as he coerces her finger to crook with his on that spot. And-

Oh! 

Her body careens forward with a jolt as she is released from the modified body-bind. 

Her thighs snap shut, trapping their hands as the shock threatens to overwhelm her. 

Her free hand shoots to her mouth and presses so hard that she feels teeth imprints on the inside of her lips. It’s immediately yanked away as he leans over and captures her lips hungrily, tongue boldly darting past the seams of her lips and swiping against hers. And she lets him as she pants into his mouth, as her free hand seeks leverage on his hard chest, sinking nails into skin as the pressure continues. 

"Do you want to come, little girl?" he says against her lips, his voice gravelly. He is panting, too. 

Does she want to surrender to an ex-Death Eater? She quashes the alarm bells ringing in her head as she sees the hunger in his eyes, then slowly nods. He's already taken so much. What difference does it make anymore? 

"Say it," he commands, staring into her eyes as he starts withdrawing both their fingers. 

A sob escapes her in protest. "Yes, yes, please. I'm so close!" 

"Good girl. Touch yourself."

His finger retreats from her and she groans at the loss as her finger is dragged out by the movement. 

She almost voices her outrage at being outmanoeuvred again, but he grips her hand with slippery fingers. He folds her pinky finger into her palm, and pushes the remaining three fingers in then out, in then out, prompting her. 

Soon, she starts to move of her own volition, and he releases her, sits on his haunches, and observes. She scrutinises his glistening, sweaty form. His black hair is sweat-soaked and falling into his eyes. With gleaming overblown pupils, he observes her back, licking his lips. His chest, lined with angry red marks, heaves with his breaths. Her eyes follow his happy trail past sharp hip bones to... Fuck! 

Subconsciously, her free hand drifts to her bundle of nerves and she exhales heavily. The harsh sound shocks her, and she snaps her eyes back to his, finding a smirk on his face. 

He starts leaning in, his eyes drifting to her lips, and she thinks with anticipation that he’s going to kiss her again. Instead, he grins wickedly as she feels his wet hand on her breast, toying with it, smearing her juices. 

She squeezes her eyes tightly shut, mortified at her train of thoughts. 

"Come for me, little girl." His voice is stern, commanding. 

Her ministrations increase in speed as she feels the coil in her belly wind impossibly tighter. But, something is missing. It’s just different when it’s her fingers, they’re not thick enough, not long enough! 

As if sensing her distress, he pinches her nipple and twists, hard. 

A scream issues from her throat as she clamps hard on her fingers, her legs quivering uncontrollably as her back leaves the warmth of the sofa. She gasps large gulpfuls of air, fully convinced that her brain is not getting enough oxygen. She vaguely feels a hand cover hers, urgently guiding her over and around her pearl, drawing her conflicted orgasm out, running both their hands over the mess she’s making. 

When the high finally subsides, she falls back onto the velvet, hit with an inexplicable pang of regret as she drags her sticky fingers out, splaying them out over her stomach. Her eyes flutter open, and she stares at the white ceiling, avoiding his gaze. 

She feels wet fingers shift onto her hips, digging painful bruises into them as his member teases her seeping entrance. With a single thrust, he shoves his hard length into her warmth, bottoming out. 

Her eyes scrunch close again as he immediately withdraws and sheathes into her again, never giving her a chance to adjust to his size. She is beyond wet, but his girth stretches her impossibly; he’s thicker than anything she’s ever tried to fit in there. Thicker even than the three fingers he has tried on her earlier. 

Her nails sink into the flesh of his biceps, holding on for dear life as he makes good on his promise, and brutally fucks her into the sofa, forcing soft _Ohs_ from her as her eyes roll back at imagery. 

"You want this." 

Her face burns. She does. 

"You like just how rough I am with your wet cunt." 

She doesn't answer, but groans in protest when he stops suddenly. 

He pulls fully out of her, and flips her over onto her hands and knees. 

His talented fingers twine themselves into her hair, twisting a handful around his grip, guaranteeing pain on every jerk of his hips. Another hand curls around her hip, digging hard, certain to leave bruises. 

And he enters her again, hard and fast. 

The new angle and simple animalistic quality of it makes her see stars. She has never been taken from behind. She suspects she never would have, if she’d gotten a say in things. 

Which would be a shame, really. 

A loud moan emits from the back of her throat as she rocks back against him, spurred by the sting in her scalp. 

"You like that?" He grunts, his voice low and sinful, "Little slut."

The hand on her hip slips lower, lower, until he is cupping her mons. 

"Ahhh!" she cries as he circles her clit furiously. The new layer of exquisite pressure builds quickly within her. 

"Come for me, slut." He slaps a hand over her clit and her world topples. Her elbows lock and she convulses with a long scream. Her walls clamp desperately onto him as he continues to piston into her, holding her up by the hips and her messy mane. 

Her limbs lose their strength as she returns to Earth, suddenly too weak to fight against gravity. The grip around her hips releases and she crashes onto the sofa immediately missing the cock that slips out. For a moment, she’s uncomfortably arched from his tight hold on her hair, which he releases only seconds after. 

A hand wraps around her throat, as he leans his weight on her, arms caging her in, erection thick, heavy and incriminatingly sticky on her thighs. 

"I own your dripping cunt now," he leans over and growls possessively into her ear as he straddles her prone form, nudging her legs together. His strong hand tilts her pelvis up to adjust her angle to accommodate his cock. 

His warm mouth wraps over her ear, licking and softly sucking. Teeth grazes her earlobe as he sinks into her warmth again, his satisfied moan vibrating deliciously within her eardrums. 

He moves down the side of her neck, panting against it as he grinds into her slowly. His warm breaths draw delightful goose pimples over her skin and she can’t help but moan. 

"You feel fucking divine around my cock," he growls, tongue darting out to lick the salt off her overheated skin as his stubble tickles her, “I wonder what your arse would feel like, wrapped around my cock.” He brushes a thumb over her perineum, so very near the forbidden. 

She stiffens. 

He’s too big to possibly fit _in there_! 

She shakes her head. _No, that’s wrong._

He’s not allowed back there! 

_Wrong. Try again._

He’s not allowed anywhere! 

"Don’t worry, little girl. Not today." His fingers flex dangerously around her throat, reminding her of her vulnerable position under him. He tilts her to face him and recaptures her lips, sucking on her bottom lip ever so softly and slowly as he rolls his hips sinfully. 

An unexpected bout of lust shoots through her and her head spins with irreconcilable emotions. 

His tongue swipes against hers, skilfully coaxing it to life, and she finds herself giving in, participating. She drags her teeth along his bottom lip, delighting in the sudden jerk of his hips. 

He recovers and continues his quest to fill her slowly, deliciously. 

She experiments with clenching her inner muscles on his retreat, earning a broken groan from him. 

The sound triggers a wave of… _something_. A small semblance of control, perhaps. 

She savours it with closed eyes, exercising the small amount of control, relishing in the hot puffs of air as his mouth migrates to the back of her neck. He gathers her hair to the side, and presses open-mouthed kisses on the exposed skin. 

Her breath hitches as he drives deeply into her, mashing painfully against her cervix, holding for a second before he retreats. And she _forgets_ the game she’s playing. 

He switches back to the lazy hip rolls, lulling her back to the false sense of security, only to alternate back to that one sharp thrust again. Her fingers dig spontaneously into the thick velvet, scratching. 

Then a third time. The vulgar slap of his balls on her clit rings through her apartment. 

"Yesss!" She hisses as the pain morphs to a twisted sort of pleasure and her eyes flutter in response. 

"More?" he stills with just the tip of his cock inside her. 

She nods, knowing she’s lost the twisted game. In for a penny, in for a pound. She cranes her neck to look him in the eyes. It’s imperative he understands what she wants. 

"Touch me. _Fuck me_ , Dolohov," she groans breathily and his eyes turn impossibly darker with lust. _Destroy me._

And it's worth it, she thinks as her face drops back onto the seat of the sofa. His palms cover her sweaty breasts possessively, squeezing. His harsh breaths fan over her shoulder as his teeth sinks into her exposed shoulder. His larger size envelopes her completely and she feels _utterly dominated_. 

Each purposeful thrust is directed to her cervix now, designed to make her wail, accumulating the pain-pleasure. Until finally… 

Her world explodes. Her fingers and toes curl as her body convulses under his weight with a scream, the contractions spreading along her limbs. 

His thrusts gain speed as he continues to plough into her even as she thrashes in rapture. 

"Oh god... Oh god..." she gasps between breaths. This climax simply _doesn’t fucking end_. He’s hitting her _right there_ , over and over and she can’t. stop. shaking. 

She gurgles as an elbow hooks around her throat, pulling her tight against his hard body. His hand squeezes under their combined weight to reach her oversensitive clit, and he twists, sending her over the edge again. 

For a moment, all she sees is black, and she thinks that maybe he has killed her. Then, all feelings return in a rush; she’s trembling out her climax, _something_ is throbbing deliciously against her cervix, and there are fingers on her button, emitting tiny sparks of pleasure. 

Oh. That’s right. Dolohov. 

The fog lifts and she feels acutely aware of how her belly feels warm; how he’s holding her quivering form so possessively under him; how he’s sealed his pelvis so very tightly against hers that she doesn’t know where he ends and where she begins

She bucks weakly against him, trying to put distance between them. Trying to get away from the stimulation. 

"Shh… Relax, little girl," he shushes her, warm breath hitting her face while his fingers twitch in warning around her throat, "Take my seed." 

Her half-lidded gaze becomes wide. 

Her struggles renew as he flicks a finger against her aching clit in warning. “Little girl, if you don’t want a repeat, I would suggest you _not_ struggle. It very much turns me on.” A tingle courses through her spine as he grinds his half-hard cock into her. 

Threat received, she lies still as his fingers swivel around her clit, avoiding the hypersensitive button. She tries to not clench on his softening member. Tries to ignore the pounding of her heart between her ears. Tries not to even breathe too hard. 

Dolohov chuckles lowly at her predicament, but releases her just before she's ready to give in, withdrawing his spent cock with a groan. He smears the mess on her arse, wiping himself off on her used body as their joint discharge seeps out of her and pools thickly onto the velvet below. 

And she tries not to rub herself against the velvet to fall over the edge of the precipice. In fact, she resolves to not move until he leaves. 

Instead, she catalogues the list of things she’s going to have to do once he’s gone. The first thing that comes to mind is to burn the damned sofa. Its very presence offends her. 

Dolohov leaves her on the blasted couch with a parting grope of her now-wet arse cheeks, which she ignores. 

She wishes she could burn Dolohov too, but that would technically be a felony. Which means she would have to move, somewhere he can’t find her, preferably somewhere he will never even think to look.

She doesn’t plan on going to the MLE. The Aurors are not as delicate as the Muggle world in these matters. The last thing she wants is her shame fucking _immortalised_ on the Prophet. Every empathetic glance thrown her way would surely remind her that she’d come so hard, repeatedly. 

She will, however, go to Harry. She’ll need a place to crash that night once she’s done packing. But he can't know her reason. Not yet. Not when she hasn’t come to grips with _anything_ yet. 

She sorts and re-orders the sequence of events that needs to happen into the most logical sequence. 

The back of her mind registers the slam of her door, and she leaps into action. 

She sprints to her bedroom, distinctly feeling the soreness between her legs. She flips every light switch she encounters along the way, bathing her flat in light. Cum drips down her thighs and over her rug -- she adds it to her to-burn list -- and floorboards. She digs through her closet for the thick beige sweater she doesn't care about, and drags it over her head. Then she shimmies into a pair of unflattering boyfriend jeans, immediately soaking through the thick denim. 

She zips back to the front door, careful not to slip on the mess she’s left. She peeks through the peephole. He's gone. 

Her hand extends past the threshold of her door through the gap of the now-open door, and she summons for her wand. No luck. Of course. 

It takes her the better part of 5 minutes to spot her wand two doors down, suspended in a stasis charm, disillusioned. Her blood boils at the malevolent wizard. 

She reaches for it gingerly, relieved to find there are no other malicious spells. With her grip on the wand, she whispers a “finite”, which effectively releases the charm. She thanks her lucky stars and backtracks quickly with her wand. 

She slams the door shut behind her, mindful of the time crunch she’s in. She has a long to-do list before he returns. 

The first spell she casts is a lumos, just in case he has tampered with her wand to backfire on her. Next is a self-diagnostic that detects dark spells cast on a person. Nothing. Which is unfortunate or fortunate, depending on one’s perspective. She won’t think about which one applies to her more. 

Concentrating on the wards over her apartment, she identifies the five charms with an unfamiliar magical signature, and overrides three of them easily with her own. Instead of his Muggle-repelling charm, she casts a comprehensive repelling spell she’d discovered in the Forbidden Section years ago. The last two proved to be a hassle, and she spends a good half hour unweaving it from the magical web of wards. 

Her blood runs cold when she finally breaks the enchantments into their base components and dispels them. The first allowed him free access to the apartment and its wards. The second was a trace on the apartment. He had fully intended on returning! 

She quickly erects an enhanced security ward at each possible point of entry, a disillusionment charm, and a fidelius charm with herself as the secret keeper. He shouldn't be able to return, she thinks, satisfied. 

In fact, this apartment wouldn’t even exist to anyone but her. 

She breathes easier now that security has been taken care of. 

Methodically starting at the front door, she makes quick work of scourgifying the obvious wet spots on the couch, her rug, and her floor. But the scent of sex lingers. She sighs. The deep cleaning and pyrotechnics will have to come after her shower. 

The rug is rolled up and levitated to the sofa. Then follows her t-shirt and shorts, and lastly the now-nude pair of underwear. 

Wand gripped tight, she stalks towards her bathroom, exhausted as the adrenaline wanes. 

She wrenches open the door to her bathroom -- had she closed it earlier? -- and half expects to come face to face with a grinning Dolohov. 

No one. 

She locks the door behind her, just in case. 

On comes the lights, off comes her thick clothing. She observes her disheveled appearance in the mirror under the harsh white light. Freshly fucked seems an apt description. 

Her hair is a right mess. Her makeup is impossibly smudged. Bruises are forming over her breasts, especially on the right one that Dolohov seemed to have taken a particular liking to. The imprints from his fingertips dot her hips. Flakes of dried cum leads a path from her thighs to her calves. 

She shivers as she recalls the throbbing of his hard rod in her cunt. 

Her skin prickles as she feels eyes on her. But she sees no one through the mirror. 

It must be paranoia. Logical really, after a traumatic event. She just hopes it's not going to be a constant niggling at the back of her mind. One year on the run has been bad enough. 

Turning away from the mirror and the reflection she doesn't recognise, she snaps the shower curtains aside. 

No one. It's fine. 

She's only disappointed that her guess is wrong. 

The water scalds her, the pain distracting, and she relishes in it. 

She steps under the spray, letting the water run down her face and hair, streaming past every inch of skin he's touched. 

Two fingers burrow into her crotch, and she shudders at their combined fluids lingering in her canal. She swipes her fingers around her walls, diligently scooping the glops of cum out of her, letting it drip messily onto the tiles. 

It distinctly reminds her of his finger as it explored her every which way, as her own arousal soaked his hand. Her cheeks flush as she curiously squeezes in a third finger. Then a fourth. 

But she fails to emulate the feeling. The fit is never right! No matter how fast or slow her movements! No matter how her hand twists at impossible angles! No matter how she tries to press against the same bumpy wall of flesh! 

She grows frustrated, and tears her fingers from her cunt, letting the spray wash away the unfulfilled arousal. 

What a bloody waste of time! 

She hurries through her shower routine mechanically, scrubbing her tender parts particularly hard. Her bathroom fills with the scents of the excessive amounts of soap and shampoo, but she still smells him on her skin. She decides she will take another shower when she’s safe in Grimmauld Place. 

By the time she exits the shower, her plan has been revised twice and stamped with a metaphorical seal of approval. 

A curse spills forth as she spots a little setback that she hasn’t accounted for in her precise plan. In her haste, she's forgotten a change of clothes. 

She ignores the soon-to-be-incinerated garments strewn carelessly on the tiles, and wraps a fluffy towel around her body, it's softness reminding her of warm puffs of breath on her skin. She exits the steam-warmed bathroom. 

No one can see through any of the windows anymore, anyway. 

Cold air lands on her skin, eliciting a tremor as she pads the short distance to her bedroom. 

She yelps as a hand yanks on hers, diverting her. Off-kilter, she is easily flung onto her bed. The air is forced out of her, and so are her thoughts. 

The opening of her towel spreads lewdly, knocked askew by the movement, exposing her to hungry eyes. 

"You didn't think I was done, did you?"

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: The word “finger” and its variants appear a whopping 71 times in this fic. This is how you know it's filth.


End file.
